


Muscle Memory

by Depths



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crew as Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Growing Up, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Slavery, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, basically just me being off my shit about tiny marco again, look learning to fly was bound to be a messy process ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depths/pseuds/Depths
Summary: Marco has never really talked about his past before– not how he met Whitebeard or how he learned to use his powers. It's just not something that's ever come up, and he was fine with whatever people speculated on their own time.Until he nearly crash landed straight into Whitebeard in front of everyone, and the man caught him in a clearly practiced and ingrained maneuver that rose some questions.





	1. opening theory

**Author's Note:**

> God I love marco. why do i have to keep falling for the character's Oda keeps as background roles or Kills Off

He had been flying for multiple days straight now. How many days? How many hours? That didn’t exactly matter at this point. Regardless of how much time had officially passed, it was enough to have his brain feel like he was trudging through thick mud. In the beginning he kept track but at this point all higher thought and functioning went to staying aloft. 

Marco couldn't remember the last time he was this exhausted. 

Actually, yes he could. It was last week, when Haruta jumped on Ace and he woke up and exploded into a bonfire so large he nearly burnt down the ship. Or was it when Vista got too drunk and challenged his own reflection on the water and nearly drowned? Come to think of it, Whitebeard arguing for finding Shanks or Garp to spar because he was  _ bored _ was pretty up there too. Being a pirate may be an occupational hazard, but sometimes Marco felt his family really gave fate and fortune a run for their money. Like a never ending game of blackjack and poker, except none of them are even using the right cards, Ace is asleep face down on his deck, Izo used the edge of one to do his eyeliner, and everyone involved is cheating. 

Marco paused midair.  _ Either my devil fruit extends to my nerves, or they have stopped existing. _ Carefully shifting, he pulled Pops’ vivre card from where he had tucked it between his talons and sighed in relief when it tugged downward instead of forward.  _ Thank god. _ His mind had been starting to turn to mud with how exhausted he was, thoughts slurred and slow. He had taken to gliding as much as possible on ocean winds, but he hadn’t passed over an island he could rest at for nearly the entire trip. With the Moby in sight he was only getting slower. The end was literally so close he could  _ taste _ the sleep he was going to get.

Mind fuzzy, he absentmindedly dived. He was getting close enough to begin hearing his family talking on deck, but he didn't have enough energy to actually listen.  _ I’m going to take a nap so long it’ll be a coma. I’m going to build a fucking  _ nest _ out of blankets and pillows, lock the doors, and—  _

“—Shit,  _ Marco!” _

Marco’s eyes shot open in time to catch sight of Whitebeard’s back, _way_ too close. Squawking, he threw his wings out, frantically scrabbling to slow down. Multiple people shouted in alarm and he vaguely registered that he accidentally smacked someone with a wing and froze in place, stuck between trying to stop or possibly bludgeoning his siblings. He hadn't realized just how _close_ he had gotten nor how fast he was going, too involved in his daydreaming of taking a damn _nap–_ _oh my god—_

Whitebeard’s eyes met his, just as surprised, and then Marco kind of lost track of what happened next. Gravity seemed to invert and he couldn't help the startled chirp that escaped him when all his momentum suddenly jerked around. His head spun. All he could really grasp at the moment was that he suddenly wasn’t moving forward. 

Eventually, thing’s stopped spinning enough for him to pry a wing off his face from where they had been flung around and dazedly looked around. He could hear some people groaning around him, but no one sounded badly injured. He hadn't gotten hurt to heal either. Marco’s brow furrowed in confusion. He was actually rather comfortable, warm on all sides. His wings had folded inward some to avoid tripping people up but it definitely wasn't him who did it, considering how jelly like every limb felt now that he wasn’t flying. A quiet laugh made him jump and he finally looked up. 

Whitebeard smiled down at him, one large eyebrow high on his face. “Good morning, son,” he rumbled teasingly. 

Marco blinked once, twice. 

Whitebeard looked him over, a tiny glint of worry entering his eyes when Marco didn't respond. “You alright, son?” He shifted to better check him over and Marco finally registered the heat around him as one of Whitebeard’s massive arms. He was effectively stuck in place, all momentum canceled. 

Thatch broke the silence to burst out laughing. 

“You— I can't believe you just  _ caught him _ like that!” Marco just stared, unable to drag together the level of conscious awareness needed at the moment to puzzle out what the  _ hell _ just happened. “You just— just whipped around, and the  _ look _ on your  _ face!” _ Thatch was near shaking with laughter, pointing at Marco as if watching the funniest thing in the world. 

Ignoring Thatch howling, Marco slowly looked down. 

He was completely off the floor. No part of him was touching it, not with the way Whitebeard had him. His talons were still open, angled to catch and grip and he carefully curled them in to avoid goring Pops. It was a fairly thoughtless move, considering they weren’t exactly anywhere near the man. Whitebeard had preemptively angled his body to face away from him, leaving his claws swinging far away from where they theoretically should have swung up in his canceling momentum and stabbed straight into the captain’s gut. 

The other arm was still wrapped firmly around him, comfortable and warm, as familiar as it was when—

Marco blinked again. And again. 

“You have got to be _ kidding me,” _ he finally hissed in disbelief, “I’m not a  _ child!” _ He immediately began fighting to be let down, flapping his wings furiously. He could feel his face burning and flared up his flames in a useless attempt to hide them. He dissolved his talons back into feet in order to try and scrambled for a better foothold. 

A part of him already knew from experience that no amount of struggling or tantrums was going to be enough to get Whitebeard to release him. He was proven right when Whitebeard only moved his free hand away from his legs in order to gently press his flailing wings back down against him. He flushed darkly at the idea of being squished into place like a misbehaving pigeon and wondered, briefly, if it was still too below him in his sleep-addled state to bite. 

Whitebeard only chortled helplessly, barely needing to move at all to keep Marco in place with ease. “It’s been so long since I last got to hug my son like this,” he commented happily. “Won’t you humor an old man?”

Marco shrieked loudly in response, nearly drowned out by the explosive laughter around them. Thatch was almost screaming with it, and Ace had appeared on deck at some point, clearly having just been woken up by the noise. 

“What’s going on?” Their youngest asked, visibly startled. 

“Marcos feathers got ruffled,” Haruta giggled. Thatch was incomprehensible at this point. 

“Can’t he just… fly away?”

“Not with my experience,” Whitebeard piped up proudly. He ignored Marco flailing in his arms and acted like he didn’t hear the shouts of  _ “Pops, I swear” _ and  _ “No! We don’t talk about that!” _ In order to gesture carefully at his first mate still wisely pinned in his arms. “I used to do this when Marco was still a baby bird.” He laughed loudly and Marco practically vibrated with it. “I guess it’s become muscle memory even after so long!” 

Marco finally stopped struggling, sacrificing trying to escape to instead bring up his arms to shield his face. “It was a  _ very _ long time ago,” he protested weakly. “You shouldn’t still be  _ able _ to– Why do you even  _ remember?” _ He glared when Whitebeard just chuckled at him. “Let me  _ down _ pops, I just want to sleep.”

“Go ahead,” Whitebeard said. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” 

Marco scowled when the man made no move to put him down and just got another quieter laugh in response. “What? It really has been a long time Marco. Let me reminisce for a while.” 

Giving up, Marco sighed loudly. He finally canceled out his powers in order to better slump against whitebeard, letting the man lift his hand up without dealing with a blue wing smacking him in the jaw. 

“Wake me in an hour or two,” he paused, “three.”

“How about four?”

_ “Yes.”  _

Careful now not to laugh too loud, whitebeard sat down and made himself comfortable. He beckoned Ace and Thatch over when he saw the cook finally catching his breath and gestured for them to sit. A glance at Marco confirmed the zoan was out for the count near immediately after settling down. 

“So,” he started, grinning mischievously. “You brats want to hear how I learned to do that?”


	2. Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Whitebeard found his first son before inevitably taking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never intended to actually write anything besides the humorous scenes of marco struggling to fly, but as per usual with me i ended up writing a lot more emotional insecurity and angst than originally intended

“It was a really long time ago,” Whitebeard started slowly. “Long enough that the name of the island escaped me years ago.” He glanced down at his son, his very first child, curled up in his arms and scowled darkly enough that Ace subconsciously began to heat up and flicker. “Not that I think that  _ place _ ,” He growled, “is worth remembering.” 

Thatch startled when Izo sat down beside him, hand tight on his gun. “Marco never talks about it,” he said quietly. “Even if I ask.” 

Whitebeard chuckled tonelessly. “He wouldn't. The people in that place weren't kind to each other– even less so, to those different to them.” 

His eyes glazed over, lost in thought. “He had already eaten his devil fruit by then.” 

* * *

Whitebeard was carefully picking his way through the undergrowth, bisento cutting away at the nth patch of vines in his way when he first heard it. 

At first, he thought a baby bird had fallen from its nest. The forest was too thick to see whatever was causing the noise, but he could clearly distinguish the sound of frantic wingbeats crashing through the leaves above him.

He looked up in time for his vision to be flooded with bright blue and he blindly lashed out, trying to grab for whatever the thing was before it smashed into him. His fingers sank into something cool and wispy, almost semi solid. Panicked squawking rang in his ears, shrill and confused. 

Eyes wide, Whitebeard thrust whatever the _thing_ was out at arm’s length. 

It was… definitely a bird. 

Not a bird Whitebeard recognized, but a bird nonetheless– one currently doing it’s best to peck  his eye out. 

“Woah, _woah!”_ He shouted, ducking to avoid a wing to the head. A sharp beak stabbed into his wrist and he hissed, struggling to pin the creature’s wings down to it’s body to avoid being battered. The bird wasn't necessarily huge– definitely bigger than any seagull he usually saw, but compared to him, it’s wingspan wouldn't even be long enough to fully wrap around his head. They were just long enough for flight feathers to slap him across the jaw. “I'm not going to hurt you,” He tried. The bird stared him down, eyes huge and terrified, and let out a _shriek_ that made him nearly drop it. 

He barely avoiding doing so anyways when the bird suddenly flared up in his hands, blue flames and feathers dissolving into recognizable tanned skin and small limbs. A tuft of dirty blond hair hung into glaring blue eyes. 

_“Let me go,”_ The _definitely_ _human__ child_ demanded. 

Whitebeard stared, transfixed. 

“This is… certainly a surprise– _woah,_ hey now!” He fumbled, scrambling not to accidentally hurt the child when it–  _ he, _ snarled at him and started to writhe in his hands. “Hey, _hey,_ Calm down–– i'm going to put you down now, okay?” He dropped the boy as gently as possible, quickly drawing back a few steps to give him some space. “Look, see, I'm backing away now. Not even in arms reach.” The boy froze, watching Whitebeard with clear confusion. 

“What are you _doing?” _He asked. He back up on all fours before even risking standing on two feet, scowling with teeth bared. Now that he wasnt moving, Whitebeard could glance him over. The boy wore no shoes– Whitebeard doubted he could wear normal human ones, if he couldn't will his talons away– and was smeared with dirt and dust all over. Leaves stuck out of his untamed hair; his clothing far too worn to still be worn as anything more than a cover up. 

Whitebeard frowned. He didn't like what he was seeing, stranger or not. “I didn't mean to startle you, I’m just passing through–”

“No, why would you– you just– just– let me _go?_ Just like that?” The boy sounded dumbfounded, staring at him as if he was crazy. 

Something wasn't right here, clearly. 

Something huge, that somehow completely slipped Whitebeard’s notice for the two days he’d been resting at this island already. 

The boy narrowed his eyes, backing away uneasily. His feet still weren't human, and he brandished them like tiny, incredibly sharp daggers. The little defensive display would have been funny. Whitebeard, a huge, towering man, being threatened by a dirty feral child. 

Except nothing about it was funny, because this was a child in front of him– a child who was either alone or abused, who was clearly terrified of him and conditioned to believe he had to fight him in order to escape someone not even being aggressive. 

_How many times,_ Whitebeard wondered with a distinctly familiar sinking feeling, _has this boy needed to do exactly that in order to survive?_

“You can't fool me,” The boy snapped. He had only gotten more tense the longer Whitebeard had remained silent. Sweat ran dirty trails down the side of his head. “I don't know what they paid you, but I’m not _stupid!”_ Despite his bravado, the child flinched when Whitebeard frowned, hands tightening on his bisento. 

_“Paid?”_ He said quietly. 

The boy blinked, taken aback. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Whitebeard carefully edged closer, forcing himself to stop immediately when the child bristled like a feral street cat. Blue flames flickered over his arms like a pre-emptive shield. 

Building dread that had already began to nag at the captain dug its claws in tighter. Memories of his own childhood, of prices and paychecks and _people_. 

Nothing about the situation bode well. 

He has been silent for too long. The tension in the child’s posture had only pulled tighter and tighter. “Wait,” He called out, holding up a hand, and cursed himself for how the child flinched backward. “I really am not here to do anything to you,” He pleaded, carefully propping his bisento against a nearby tree.  “I don't know what someone might want with you,” He did. A child, alone, with clear devil fruit powers? Even if he didn't have his own experiences, it was obvious what people might do with an  _ exotic and _ _vulnerable_ child involving money. 

He nearly gagged at the thought. 

“...but I can assure you I wasn't aware of any price on your head. I'm only hunting for food, for my own travels.” 

The boy regarded him suspiciously and Whitebeard slowly sat down, crossing his legs loosely and relaxing his shoulders. A glance confirmed that his bisento was far enough away from where he was sitting to hopefully not raise alarm. “I’m not going to hurt you,” He promised. 

For a long moment, he was only stared at. The child's eyes darted from his weapon to him, lingering on his hands laying lax and open on his knees. Slowly, the boy nodded. “...Okay,” He eventually said. “I… I believe you.” He still made no moves to get closer, but he also didn't bolt like he clearly wanted. 

“What’s your name, son?” 

The child hesitated and Whitebeard smiled, waving a hand dismissively in an effort to hide the sick feeling in his gut. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, boy. It’s up to you.” He hoped the kid would tell him his name. It felt like a disservice, to willingly choose not to respect the autonomy of this child's identity. Not when he so clearly had no one else to do anything more than threaten him. He was pleasantly surprised when the boy shook his head, mouth firm and eyes determined. 

“Im– I'm Marco,” He said quietly. 

“Just Marco?”

Blue eyes darted away, pinning themselves to the forest floor and Whitebeard nodded. “Okay Marco. Nice to meet you, I’m Edward Newgate, or Whitebeard.” The child frowned, mouthing the name carefully and Whitebeard just chuckled and held back the impulse to ruffle the boy–  _ Marco’s– _ hair. “If it’s too much, you can just call me Pops,” He said jokingly, laughing delightedly when Marco felt safe enough to glare at him. There was no heat behind the expression this time and it made a world of difference, transforming a scared and half-feral bird zoan into a normal, malnourished child. 

His laughter faded at the reminder of why Marco was there and he gently lowered his voice to ask; “So, Marco, why did I find you falling like that?” He was greeted with the frankly adorable sight of Marco flushing in embarrassment. His cheeks got so red they caught fire, sending blue flames licking all the way into his hairline. Now that there was less urgency belying Marco's actions, Whitebeard allowed himself more time to truly look at the flames. It was obvious the boy had a civil fruit power from the moment he transformed in Whitebeard's arms– but it doesn't change that it wasn't one he recognized. At least he could be sure it was a zoan type– and judging from the blue flames, definitely not a common one. 

“I was trying to fly,” Marco muttered. Whitebeard raised an eyebrow and he crossed his arms defensively, refusing to break gazes with the captain despite his anxiety. “I have wings! I  _ should _ be able to, I just... I'm just not very  _ good _ at it yet.” Whitebeard hummed, glancing the boy over in contemplation. 

Marco fidgeted under the weight of his eyes. “What?” He asked nervously. 

“I don't think you're going to have much luck here,” Whitebeard said honestly. “The trees aren't tall enough. You just immediately hit another branch and fell, didn't you?” 

Marco blushed darkly. 

Whitebeard cackled loudly, slapping his knee in mirth and grinning with all his teeth when Marco barely reacted. All it took was some slow movements before this boy, this child, hunted down and ostracized, warmed up enough to him to be relaxed in his presence. He didn't talk back, but there was clearly some disposition for sass and cheek in him as all children have. 

Whitebeard couldn't help but like him. For such a small kid, he was a little spitfire of a bird– his little talons had left shallow gashes that still stung on his arms, and for his size he was surprisingly strong.  _ He makes for decent company, and is far more lively than any of the men and women I’ve met so far in this village. He’s an interesting little brat. _

The idea hit him like a punch– or a wing to the face, overwhelming and uncontrollable. 

“Why don't you come with me?” Whitebeard blurted out. 

Marco immediately tensed, his posture curling defensively in a way that had Whitebeard cursing his impulsive offer. “Come _with_ you?” He asked quietly. His eyes were glazing over and Whitebeard's heart leapt into his throat. He fought to swallow down the panic before Marco noticed. 

Despite himself, Whitebeard nodded. There wasn't much sense in back-peddling at this point, and he wasn't about to lie and say he wasn't interested in Marco. “Come with me, Marco,” He said, trying to stay relaxed and calm. “Join me on the seas, free, as one of my crew.” 

Trying to hide how his heart pounded, he winked conspiratorially. “Maybe you'll have better luck flying, if it's on the ocean breeze.” 

A pang rang through his chest when Marco just crept backwards, shying away from his offer. “N-no,” He said quietly. “No, _No,_ _I won't come with you._ I'm not going  _ anywhere!” _ Whitebeard fought not to slide his eyes shut. Not to move, not to hug this child so clearly bleeding right in front of him. Pain and fear vibrated off every coiled muscle and tense line in his face. “You–– You_ can't make me,”_ He whispered. It sounded more like he was telling himself rather than Whitebeard. It sounded like a promise. 

_He is in no chains, and yet already completely prepared to wait for an opportunity to escape them._

“Marco,” Whitebeard tried, but Marco scrambled backward, face collapsing halfway into blue fire and feathers. 

_“I won't let them have me,”_ He whispered frantically. “I– I won't let _anyone_ have me. I'm going to learn to fly, and then i'm going to get out of here and _never come back.”_ The desperation was clear in his voice and Whitebeard swallowed thickly. The boy couldn't focus enough to hear him anymore, too lost in his own panic. His breathing was starting to pick up and Whitebeard frowned uneasily. 

_How many times has he been in chains? How many times was he threatened with them? _

_ This is a child. He doesn't look older than 10. Dirty and malnourished and afraid.  _

Whitebeard could hear faint gunshots echoing, feel phantom fire against his skin. Charred wood and chains and cheery nobles. 

“Marco–” 

_“No!”_ Marco shrieked, raising his arms high and exploding them into wings just large eniough to shield him from an attack that wasn't coming. He curled in on himself so tightly that Whitebeard felt like he had just been slugged in the gut.“I know what you want, what they _all_ really want– _I didn't know what it was_, I _swear_, I was just so _hungry_–” 

“Marco!” 

Marco gasped, flailing in shock when Whitebeard slammed his fist against the earth. Splintering cracks webbed out from the new crater and the boy was forced to hop onto a tree root, wings flapping uselessly as his talons nearly dipped into the new cracks and vibrations forced him to his knees. “Wh-what–” 

Whitebeard pulled a face just left of a smile, all sharp and unforgiving edges. “Do you really think I would sell you,” He said quietly, “For being someone like _me?” _

Marco stared at him like he’d never seen him before. His eyes were huge, practically glowing in the flickering reflections of his own power. He looked down at the ground, kneeling down to touch the chasms almost reverently. The edges were blue with his flames. 

“You…” Marco started, as if the words weren't comprehendable, “...You ate one too?” 

Whitebeard chuckled, hoping Marco couldn't hear how much it hurt. “I ate the shake-shake fruit,” He said simply. He flicked a finger in Marco’s direction and grinned humorlessly when the child yelped, looking at him with a new sense of awe. 

“Marco,” He started slowly, laughter fading. “I won't force you to come with me, if you really don't want to. I am only offering.” He smiled gently when he saw Marco listened attentively, expression serious. “The choice is completely up to you. I will _never_ keep you if not of your own will.” Marco’s eyes shot to Whitebeard’s hand when he carefully opened it, stretching it towards him. 

“So?” he asked quietly. “How about it?” He hoped Marco wouldn't refuse him. His heart in his throat, he kept his eyes soft, his lips quirked, his hand open. He kept every limb and muscle loose and relaxed. 

...He hoped it was enough. Marco had clearly already had too many bad run-ins with lying adults and he refused to be one of them.

_ Please _ , He thought,  _ just take my hand. Take my hand, and I will protect you as one of my own. _

Marco’s eyes were huge, arms tight to his sides. Whitebeard felt like if he reached out and touched, at that moment, he’d feel chains binding the child’s wings to the dirt. 

_ You will  _ ** _never_ ** _ fear for your freedom again, with me.  _

Whatever Marco saw in Whitebeard’s face made tears well up in his eyes. “O-okay,” He whispered, and when Whitebeard ever so gently pulled him into his arms, smiling with all the warmth and relief of the sun on the ocean and cool wind under wing Marco sobbed. 

“Okay,” He said again, and allowed himself to hope for the skies again. 

* * *

Whitebeard would be a liar to say that he wasn't intimidating. He’s a huge man, armed and dangerous, and has a bounty worth a double take or two. Even alone he’d be fully capable of leveling a island, not to mention a country, or a city. 

Or a small town. One of which his current– and only– crewmember desperately did not want to go anywhere near. 

Marco clearly didn't want to say anything. Whitebeard had warned him, before they left the forest, that he had anchored his little ship by the town’s docks. They would have to pass through the town in order to get to it. Whitebeard wasn't exactly  _ worried _ about the townspeople attacking them– even if they had been friendly to Whitebeard so far (as friendly as a small, quiet, isolated and wary town could be–) he was sure that they could hold their own where it counted. 

No one could be so helpless and rotten at the same time, to threaten a child the way they clearly did Marco. 

No, he wasn't worried about being surrounded, or threatened, or stabbed or shot. What they could dish out would be nothing towards what he could retaliate with and he was certain they all knew it. He, and by extension Marco, would physically be fine. No one would dare touch the child, price tag or not, with the way he had so carefully stepped close to Whitebeard’s side. Regardless... If Whitebeard ever bothered to wear a coat, or even a cape, he was sure Marco would be doing his best to vanish under it. 

In that moment, with the kid’s heart pounding so hard Whitebeard could feel it where Marco squeezed close to his hip, Whitebeard wished he did. 

“It’ll be quick,” Whitebeard promised. His heart sank when, just like the last four times, Marco just nodded quickly and refused to meet his eyes. Tiny hands clenched onto his sash tightened further. Whitebeard almost wished he would throw a tantrum instead of the unnerving quiet Marco had fallen into the moment the town had come into sight. He wished Marco would argue. It would be better than the wild fear sunk deep in the child’s posture– better than seeing him trying to silently hide away behind Whitebeard’s mass. 

He gently ruffled the boy’s tuft of blond hair, smiling reassuringly when Marco tried to smile at him through his tight lipped grimace. 

They stepped onto worn cobblestone. 

Whitebeard tried to walk quickly. It would have been nice to walk slowly, to show Marco that no one would bother them like this, but the building distress forcing past Marco’s careful composure made him immediately speed up before he could even consider it further. He waved casually when people looked up at his approach, hoping the movement would draw their eyes away from the child firmly attached to his hip. 

He knew it didn't work when the eyes of a pleasant fisherman he had been talking to just that morning positively lit up. Dread immediately sank like a stone into his gut, heavy and cold. 

Marco tensed, grip tightening the moment the Fisherman's eyes caught him. Whitebeard instinctively clamped a hand down on his shoulder. Marco stared up at him with eyes huge with disbelief and Whitebeard swallowed hard, but when he didn't move no blue flames licked at his hands and no child bolted. A sudden movement could start something Whitebeard wasn't willing to put Marco through– but he couldn't tell him that in the middle of the town. 

The town that wanted Marco tagged and sold like livestock, whose people were smiling at Whitebeard with the same polite atmosphere they had given him just that morning. 

A woman the fisherman had been speaking to before Whitebeard arrived frowned as her companion went quiet and followed his eyes to Marco. Her brow shot up and she gasped.“You–! You caught the bird!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. 

Heads snapped up at the comment and Whitebeard felt physically nauseas as the growing crowd immediately began clamoring over each other. Even though none of them even reached his shoulders he felt suffocated. Marco whimpered at his feet. 

“Oh, _Thank you–”_

“Did it give you much trouble?”

“I hope it didn't hurt you, the other hunters who tried to help got slashed up by that _monster–” _

“Here– we can– _shit, _Jules get the chains, the special seastone ones Nelly got–” 

A smiling man walked up to them, hands clasped gratefully. He was the same dockhand that Whitebeard remembered asking about what he could hunt in the forest just hours before. 

His eyes were pinned to Marco with the same look he gave Whitebeard when talking about meat. 

“Just keep holding it still, sir,” The man advised, and Whitebeard could feel Marco starting to squirm under his hand, could feel the way his tiny body trembled with every breath taken far too fast– “Jules will be right back with the chains, and then we can take it off your hands–” Marco made a distinctive whimper, freezing fast in Whitebeard’s grip. 

Whitebeard saw red. 

“That won't be necessary,” He snapped, and felt a dark satisfaction at how the man frowned in confusion. 

“Sir, I’m sure someone of your strength could handle this feral _thing_, but–”

“No,” Whitebeard cut in. “_I’m_ _saying_ _that_ _won't be necessary.”_ Marco’s tiny hands scrabbled over his, clinging on tightly. Whitebeard wasn't sure whether to attempt to pry it off or to hold on. With how Marco seemed unable to move, he wasn't sure he knew what the boy wanted either. The dockhand’s eyes narrowed irritably and Whitebeard was, in that moment, nearly overwhelmed with the _need_ to punch the man in the face. 

Maybe a broken jaw and a black eye or two would prove to Marco how serious he was about his offer. 

“I am taking him with me,” Whitebeard said, and all the casualness in the word could not hide how violently he wanted to bury this man for insinuating that he would sell a child _clinging to him for safety._ The town was deathly silent, shocked and cowering, and he never felt better for it than right in that moment. 

“He will be _free_, far from this place, Forever.” Marco sobbed, the sound gasped and choked. For the first time, he didn't flinch when Whitebeard reached out to pull him closer, enveloping his entire small and hunched back with one hand. 

A previously kind fisherman he had met just hours before scowled. “That little _monster,”_ he snarled, “has been _terrorizing_ this town–” the crowd yelped and ducked when Whitebeard snapped out a fist, ploughing it straight through the air with an alarming _crack_. Chasms split the shaking ground, forcing townspeople to tumble to the ground. At Whitebeard’s left, a building crumbled to nothing but rubble and dust. Marco only watched on in awe, barely reacting besides to hold on tighter when Whitebeard carefully scooped him up into one arm. 

“This place is _rotten,”_ Whitebeard said humorlessly, and cackled loudly when another set of buildings were reduced to splinters under his fist. 

_“Stop!_ What are you _doing?!”_

Whitebeard didn't bother wasting his breath on the panicking townspeople, instead smiling down at the dumbstruck child staring at the destruction with wide eyes. “Do you see Marco? With devil fruit alone I am _stronger_ than everyone here. _Do you understand?”_ He held up his free hand, watching Marco reach out to touch it and chuckled at the reverent look the child leveled at it. Something tight and angry in him lessened just the slightest, softest amount when Marco carefully pressed his own blue flames against his palms. They were cool, licking against his skin searchingly. Little blue feathers dotted Marco’s skin in a growing array of flame wickers and wisps. 

“Those who eat a devil fruit are often strong, Marco,” He murmured, and Marco watched, transfixed, as he calmly leveled another building in his way. People were running frantically, dodging between blows and darting out of the streets. Whitebeard grinned at Marco when he felt the boy flare brighter, bigger, feathers chilled against his skin. He raised Marco high to sit on his shoulders, laughing as the boy only yelped and flapped his wings. “And _I_ am the _strongest man alive!”_ He shouted gleefully. The island trembled under their feet, rocked by his voice alone. 

“Let’s go,” he said, quieter, and when Marco threw his head back and laughed, loud and unafraid, Whitebeard felt like he could never get any freer than right then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... this was originally meant to be a one-shot. 
> 
> and then it was going to be a two-parter. 
> 
> and then i wrote the original meeting and not just flight practice so now it's a three-parter. 
> 
> now im forced to admit i have a problem, but hey at least the entire story is done! third and last chapter will be posted as soon as i edit it ;) thanks for the patience


	3. Trial and Error (Mostly Error)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whitebeard and Marco attempt to succeed! 
> 
> With only minor injury!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the monster mash

Even on board Whitebeard’s small ship, there was more than enough room for Marco to stretch out and explore. The child was so much smaller than Whitebeard that if he would allow himself to be picked up again, he'd fit primly in the palm of one giant hand. Not that he would. Whitebeard hadn’t wanted to push Marco’s already fragile trust by being overly affectionate. So far though, Marco had been more than entertained with carefully flitting around every corner of the ship with eyes wide. 

“That’s the crows nest,” Whitebeard said, watching with bemusement as Marco flushed. The boy hadn't voiced any questions of his own since coming on board, too occupied with scrutinizing every nook and cranny himself first– but Whitebeard was more than okay with humoring the unspoken questions and curiosity towards any rigging. Once Marco was older– _if_ he would be staying (and Whitebeard had not ever wanted someone to stay so _overwhelmingly_ before)– it would be vital that he understood the parts and priorities of life on the sea. “You’re too small to climb up there without help– at least until we get some food and strength into you” he winked conspiratorially and Marco giggled, “but some day you'll be able to fly up there yourself.” 

At the mention of flying, Marco stared forlornly up at the crow’s nest. His arms flickered blue, but he did not transform. There was a distinct apprehension in his eyes that Whitebeard immediately disliked.

“...Do you really believe that?” He asked. 

Whitebeard stared, but Marco would not look away to meet his eyes. Gently, he pat Marco’s head. Blue eyes snapped to him at the touch. 

For all of his defeated tone, there was so much _fire_ in his gaze. Whitebeard grinned. “With all the alcohol I have,” He promised teasingly, and laughed when Marco reddened and ducked out from under his hand. It did little to hide the small smile sprouting on Marco's face, quick and warm like a candle in the wind. 

Whitebeard sat back on his heels, straightening with a happy sigh. He should really go and start fixing something for both of them to eat out of the meat he had hunted down on the island; but right now something warm and content kept him rooted in place to watch and tease as his new, tiny family began right before his eyes– sprouting to life, starting with the spunky brat of a bird slowly circling the mast looking for a foothold. 

* * *

Whitebeard stared. 

The hunk of meat was… maybe just a _little_ burnt. Smoking _only_ a bit. It would be fine when he cut it up. A pirate should know not to waste food– especially if they didn't have a navigator yet to tell them whether they'd be able to dock soon to get more. 

_ I am Whitebeard. I refuse to be defeated by some questionable meat.  _

He cut it open.

He stared. Without a word, he tossed half of it back onto the grill and hoped it looked less… red the next time he came in. Picking up the remainder as well as a couple apples and rice as an afterthought, he stepped outside. When he didn't immediately see Marco, he called out, “Marco I have–” 

A familiar squawk came from overhead. Whitebeard felt a sense of dejavu and looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of his impeding doom. 

Immediately, a small and blue mass rocketed directly into him and Whitebeard flailed with a shout, dropping a plate and both his apples all over the deck. Something might have shattered. He was too occupied with his current armful of fire to really care. Feathers crammed into his mouth and he couldn't help his wince when a wing smacked him over the ear in it's frenzied flapping. Something sharp pricked against his shoulder, scratching three long lines over his collarbone and he hissed in surprise before the edges suddenly vanishing in a flash of flame. Familiar cloth rapidly replaced feathers under his hand. 

Sputtering, he plucked Marco off his face by his shirt and laughed unabashedly when the boy tumbled back into his palm, ruffled and indignant. 

“You've been busy." He raised an eyebrow and scanned over the deck, eyes finally free to observe the new marks gored into the wood everywhere he looked. His shoulder _smarted_. Marco blushed all the way down his neck. 

“You _said_ I could practice,” He said, and Whitebeard carefully did not tease him for his accusatory tone. The boy had frozen the moment he had hissed, talons transformed back into feet and tightly curled close to his chest– but Whitebeard didn't count on his subdued moment lasting long. 

“That I did.” 

He was proven right when marco began to squirm and gently cupped him in his hand. “Marco,” He called, and Marco paused in his wiggling to look up at him nervously. Blue eyes darted away again as quickly as they made contact and Whitebeard held back a sigh. 

“What?” Marco asked defensively. 

Moving slowly, Whitebeard shifted Marco until he was perched on his arm rather than in his hand. “I know I said you should practice,” he started, and quickly hushed the boy when he glared, “But those little claws of yours are sharper than they look! This small ship won't carry us long, if she gets more scarred up from both of us.” There were already numerous places he had had to haphazardly nail metal plates down where his own devil fruit had splintered holes and gaps in the planks. Between the two of them, with Marco’s flight attempts and Whitebeard’s own strength, she wouldn't last long enough to even reach the next island. “How did you even get so high? You're too skinny to have the strength to climb the mast yet.” Marco's ribs still showed when the wind blew his shirt up, and his cheeks had looked far to hollow once Whitebeard had helped him get all the dirt off. The village back on his home island really had done him no favors. 

For a lingering, dark moment, Whitebeard wished for not the first time that he had just gone ahead and dealt with them. With every new thing he noticed wrong with Marco he felt that destroying the village alone wasn't enough. He was only stopped knowing that returning for the brief satisfaction would do more harm to Marco than good. 

Marco fidgetted uneasily. He hopped out of Whitebeard’s arms and this time he let him, not wanting to risk pressing Marco’s boundaries too far. The boy trotted him over to the mast and Whitebeard hummed in surprise when he saw the marks gouged out of the wood. A questioning glance at Marco had the child look down at his feet in shame. “I needed the grip,” He mumbled. “The birds back home would learn by falling, so I– I thought that––” He twitched when Whitebeard just chuckled, laying a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. 

“Don't worry about it, son,” he rumbled. “What's done is done, and she’s still standin’, ain't she?” Marco glanced at him apprehensively and Whitebeard chuckled. “Next time though, just call for me if you want to practice. I’d like to be here in case you hit the ocean, just in case, and–” he crouched low to dip a finger into one of the marks, raising a brow at just how deep it ran, and Marco crossed his arms defensively even as he smiled teasingly “–maybe when you fall, I can just catch you and spare us some new patchwork.” Marco huffed and turned away, but he was red from his ears all down his neck, flushed like a fever, and Whitebeard laughed fondly. 

“What do ya think, boy? Sound good?”

Marco sighed loudly and glanced at the marks, than back at his feet, frowning. “I’m just gonna end up cutting _you_ up, instead,” He muttered. He looked up at Whitebeard and guilt darkened his expression when he caught the three lines scored over the man’s torso. “After what happened to the deck…” 

Whitebeard just waved it off. “What, don't think your captain tougher than some planks of wood?” He rubbed at the marks with one hand and grinned when it barely stung, the lines not even bleeding. “It’s barely a graze, boy! You’ll have to try harder than that to injure  _ me, _ ” He cackled. Marco looked suspicious, but the more he stared at the marks the more he relaxed. Whitebeard ruffled his hair just to hear him yelp indignantly. “If you’re really worried,” He said, softer, “Then I’ll just have to work harder to catch you properly.” 

* * *

The first try ended with Marco swerving sharply to the right from a sudden gust and skidding across the deck hard enough to leave a massive gash scored from the mast to the rail. He would have crashed straight through the railing, if Whitebeard had not sprinted in order to grab him. Shocked but unharmed, Marco was helpless against Whitebeard as the captain then happily cradled his son until Marco snapped out of his daze and began to squirm. 

“You can’t _seriously_ want to celebrate,” Marco complained. He was flushed red, struggling uselessly to untangle his own heap of flames and wayward tail feathers bundled firmly in Whitebeard's arms. “All I did was  _ crash immediately!”  _

“But you didn’t land in the ocean!” Whitebeard crowed, and laughed in victory when Marco begrudgingly allowed him to swing him up into the air, wings flapping fruitlessly. 

“I’ll bring out the sake!”

_ “NO!”  _

* * *

The second try ended with a small bruise quickly darkening on Whitebeard's side. 

“Are you _sure_ I didn’t slice you?” Marco tried for the fifth time. Whitebeard sighed, also for the fifth time. He found it endearing at first, that Marco was so clearly worried, but it was such a tiny bruise. Marco was far too small and light to do more than poke at him, even with the meals he had been trying to push onto him– frankly Whitebeard was more than pleased with just the success of no new destruction to the ship. 

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Marco began quietly, “I— I could wait until we stop at another island—“ 

“Absolutely not, son.”

Marco glared at him, tiny hands tight on his hips. He was so deadly serious that Whitebeard couldn’t help but chuckle behind one hand. He knew it didn’t manage to hide any of his amusement, with how Marco immediately pouted up at him with what the child no doubt thought was an intimidating scowl. “I'm not making any progress! So far all I’ve done is destroy the ship and hurt you.” He looked away, hands balled into shaking fists. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to fly. Is something wrong with me?” 

The  _ like they said _ was unspoken, and just as sickening as if Marco had actually managed to say it out loud. Whitebeard felt his blood boil. He almost wished his bisento was in his hands at the moment, if just to give him something to grip. “You were meant to fly, Marco,” he said fiercely. “You were always meant to be free.” Marco looked away in shame and Whitebeard instinctively picked him up, relieved when he didn’t flinch. A tiny hand clung to his shirt."Learning anything new takes a long time. You'll get there." 

An idea— a stupid one— came to mind. Grinning mischievously, Whitebeard reveled in Marco's growing look of confusion as he calmly shifted his grip under his arms to be more firm. His muscles tensed and he nearly burst out laughing as Marco's face quickly turned to dread. 

“Let’s try again!” Whitebeard said cheerfully. Marco didn't have time to do more than scream in alarm as he threw Marco so high that the ensuing explosion of blue light for once didn’t manage to blind him. 

He still ended up with scratch marks all over his forearms and face, but Marco was _smiling_. 

* * *

Whitebeard couldn't help the curses that came out of his mouth as he ran towards the rail. Marco plummeted from the sky like a star, flailing uselessly as he went. His own tail tangled around his wings until he awkwardly kicked himself into a spiral straight towards the ocean. 

_“Shit,”_ Whitebeard snarled, and subconsciously hoped Marco was too busy focusing on how he was about to drown to pick up any of the worse of the many, many swears he had just spit out. “It’s okay son, I’m here! I'll catch you,” He shouted. Marco’s blue eyes pinned themselves to his face and he threw himself forward so hard the railing creaked and splintered under his weight ominously. 

His hand barely managed to skim Marco’s shirt. For a quick moment Whitebeard was overwhelmed with dread– but then a wing buffeted his hand and Marco flipped from the blow just enough for one of his talons to flail outward and _catch_. Sharp, tiny pinpricks of pain bit into Whitebeard’s hand but he was too frazzled to even wince. He held perfectly still as Marco frantically cling to him, tiny chest heaving against his fingertips. 

Slowly drawing back over the rail, he sat back on the deck just as the wood gave away and fell with a splash into the ocean. Smiling through the pain, Whitebeard looked down at the boy still coiled tight and tense in his lap. His talons trembled where they still dug tight into Whitebeard’s hand. Blood was starting to soak into his pants, but all his attention was on Marco. The boy was gasping in his lap, eyes huge. 

“Hey,” Whitebeard said soothingly. He carefully froze when Marco flinched as he raised his free hand, only moving again when the boy whimpered and tried to grab onto it. His hands were still transformed however, and Whitebeard felt something in him go soft and quiet when wings only as long as his forearm shakily pressed against his hand. They were pleasantly cool against his skin. “You alright son?” He asked. 

Marco stared up at him in a daze. He made a confused peeping sound when Whitebeard shifted, slowly propping him up in his lap in order to free his hand not caught by Marco's wings. "It's okay, son," he murmured soothingly. Marco only blinked up at him, barely reacting to his touch besides another small chirp when Whitebeard carefully brushed his hair back. He quickly turned distressed when Whitebeard touched his talons still anchored firmly onto his arm but Whitebeard only shushed him and gently pried Marco loose. A brief glance confirmed that the wound wasnt anything alarming. A few jagged entry cuts, nowhere as deep as it had felt. It had already stopped even bleeding. Sighing, Whitebeard just held the boy in his lap and waited until blue eyes blinked up at him, haze cleared. 

“Good morning, Marco,” Whitebeard greeted casually. His shoulders finally slumped and he smiled at his tiny son, heart slowing. His hand was _really_ starting to sting. 

Marco blinked. 

He winced when the boy suddenly screeched, ripping his talons away and very nearly tumbled straight out of Whitebeard's lap if he hadn't instinctively snagged him by the shirt. “I _hurt_ you!” He cried out, staring in dismay at the blood pooling into Whitebeard’s lap. 

“It’s just a little blood–”

“Oh God, It’s _everywhere–”_

“Look, doesn't even hurt–”

“Why are you– No stop _moving_ it–”

"Marco, _really–"_

Both of them stopped talking, glaring each other down. 

“Marco, I’m_ fine,”_ Whitebeard said, but Marco crossed his arms and huffed at him in a way decidedly childish. “Come on, your little claws aren't even that sharp. It’ll heal in a day!” Nope, nothing. Marco refused to meet his eyes. He even turned away when Whitebeard leaned down, the brat. 

Sighing loudly, Whitebeard slumped back against the deck, making Marco yelp as he fell with him. “It’s _okay,_ son,” he rumbled quietly. “Mistakes happen. I don't blame you.” Tears pricked Marco’s eyes and Whitebeard gently reached up to poke at his cheek with his uninjured hand, unable to smile when Marco just let it happen without swatting him away like usual. “I’ll clean up, and then we can try again later, okay? Let’s take a break.” 

Trying and failing to hide a sniffle, Marco climbed off him and glared balefully. “I’m getting the med kit,” He said stubbornly. Whitebeard could only chuckle forlornly as the child stomped off below deck. 

_It won't even scar,_ he thought fondly. Regardless, he stood up to go and wash off the quickly drying blood._ It's good to worry, and be worried about. I'm glad I am now someone Marco wants to worry about, even if he's going to sulk. _

When Marco berated him for moving around he just pulled his sassy little spitfire into a careful hug and laughed until the floorboards splintered under their feet.

* * *

“Come on, son,” Whitebeard shouted, hands to his mouth. “Just jump! I’ll be right here.” 

Marco hesitated, perched on the edge of the crows nest. Even on their little ship, he was so high up that Whitebeard could barely see his expression. No one would even need observation haki to recognize the anxiety that practically boiled off the kid. 

“A-are you sure?” He yelled. At least, that’s what Whitebeard assumed he said, his voice distorted and swept off in the wind. Whitebeard had hoped the extra push of a sea breeze would help carry Marco's weight, let him ease into how it felt to be aloft rather than flapping feverishly and ending up tiring himself out again. “I don’t think this is a good idea!” 

“You’ll be fine kiddo!” 

Whitebeard snickered when he barely caught what he was definitely sure was a grumbled “that’s not helping”. 

“Fine!” 

Whitebeard grinned as Marco finally launched himself off the crows nest, wings flaring wide. He shouted in victory when the breeze caught his feathers and raised Marco higher. High off success, Marco trilled high in his throat that made Whitebeard's heart race with excitement. 

Thunder rumbled. 

The sky was dark in an instant and Marco screamed as the wind picked up, the sudden storm rapidly careening him off course. Terrified, the boy tucked his wings in and immediately dipped into a sharp spiral that made Whitebeard want to pull his hair out. “Old, wings out!” Whitebeard shouted, panicked, but Marco took one look at the ocean quickly getting closer and just curled up into a tight blue fireball. Cursing, whitebeard dived. His huge hand caught Marco like a large, blue football. 

One that was on fire, and currently screeching so loudly Whitebeard couldn't hear the storm. He pressed Marco firmly to him as waves rocked the boat and didn’t protest when sharp talons latched onto him, pricking through his clothes. His hands had transformed the second he registered Whitebeard's touch in order to desperately cling to him. One hand ended up tangled in his hair but Whitebeard wasn't about to do something unnecessary and stupid like _stop_ him. 

  
“I’m not doing that again!” Marco shrieked, voice cracking over octaves whitebeard didn’t even know he could reach.  _ “Do you hear me?!? Never again!”  _

Whitebeard smiled shakily and shook wet hair out of his face, laughing when Marco sputtered and pushed away from his chest. “You make a fine point, son!” 

Still cackling despite himself, Whitebeard urged a very wet and grumpy baby pirate indoors before facing the storm. The ocean trembled and he cackled gleefully, raising his bisento high above his head. 

“Think you could threaten _my_ brat, aye, Mother Nature?” 

* * *

“Marco, if you’re not comfortable with me holding you just perch properly.”

Marco glared up at him from where he was unceremoniously cradled in his arms. “It’s not as if I _hate_ it,” he argued, eyes darting to the side, “it’s just— _embarrassing.”_ He flushed violently when Whitebeard threw his head back and laughed in response but made no moves to escape. Despite how he crossed his arms and scowled he didn’t even dodge when Whitebeard carefully ruffled his hair with a finger. 

Humming contemplatively, Whitebeard gently deposited his youngest and currently only son down on the deck. That day's practice had only garnered him a small bruise— and the past three glides he’d managed to move fast enough to avoid the rapidly growing talons the boy was sporting. After a couple months of healthy and constant meals, Marco had shot up like a beansprout in the sun. He was just totting around Whitebeard's knee now– and his wingspan stretched to the full length of one of whitebeard's arms, longer than he was tall– and his claws...

...The railing didn’t survive the last practice bout. 

Where Whitebeard would only get shallow nicks and scratches before that could just be laughed off, now he was genuinely pushed to avoid the sharp tips snagging him in a fumble. They were long and lethal enough now to gouge out something important if he wasn’t careful– and he had barely managed to sneak away the last wound deep enough to bleed before Marco saw it and inevitably freaked out. Whitebeard swore he had gotten more flexible from the sheer unexpected gymnastic cardio out of dodging Marco's wayward limbs. 

It would be nice, if Marco could learn to land properly— but as it was neither of them were about to risk either Whitebeard losing an eye— or a ship– It would just have to wait till they hit another island. 

But, in the meantime…

“Why don’t you just get a feel for it?” Whitebeard suggested. He carefully maneuvered Marco, careful not to move too much as the boy flapped his wings to better balance himself and settle with much more stability on whitebeard’s massive shoulder. He was just small enough to Whitebeard’s mass that his claws managed to firmly wrap around the muscle without curling in and stabbing him, allowing Marco to delicately leverage himself without falling. Whitebeard smiled at the perplexed look Marco shot him. “Take some time just perching on the rails, or me, and maybe it’ll feel more natural for you. How does that sound?” He chuckled when Marco chirped in agreement, never failing to be amused by the embarrassed blush that immediately burned bright on the boy’s cheeks for the noise. 

(It took less than a week before Whitebeard was delegated to the _Primary Perch_, after Marco's claws quickly crushed a railing to splinters when a wind startled him.) 

* * *

The Grandline is not for the faint of heart. You'd think after a lifetime of living in it, freak storms and weather shifts would stop being such an unaccounted surprise. However nothing less than a brilliant navigator would ever be able to prepare a crew for the Grandline's oceans, and currently Whitebeard had the expert on board handling of one single man and a child. Who both could not swim. Hence–

_“Marco!”_ Whitebeard roared, forcing his way through the wind. 

_ “I’m okay!” _

Whitebeard stared at the tiny form draped over the mast. Marco wasn't even able to move, pinned to the wood firmly by the storm. The wind was so strong that his tail flailed wildly over the edge of the ship– Whitebeard could barely tell where it ended, faded to grey in the rain, if it wasn't for how the golden feathers flashed and glowed in the storm. “Don't lie to me, son!” He shouted, carefully peeling Marco off the mast. The hold was familiar and easy to fall into and he flipped Marco to better settle in his arms without a second thought. Talons bit into his biceps, struggling to hold on even as he reached out to help fold Marco’s wings in for him. 

Marco was too light in his human form, and even lighter when transformed in any way. Even partially transformed put him at risk for getting blown right off the ship. “Transform back!” He said, “You’re going to be carried off!” 

“I could still get carried off, and then I how would I fly back?!” 

_“I've got you!”_ Whitebeard promised. He tightened his hold on the boy, free hand slapping the railing in a flailing effort to get a better purchase on the ship. Marco was cool under his hands. Water was soaking them both thoroughly, dampening the blue flames. It was only getting harder and harder to see through the downpour, and their boat rocked violently. “I’ve got you now. _You'll be okay.”_

_“That’s what you said last time,”_ marco complained, but in a moment all of the blue sunk below his skin and Whitebeard clutched a normal human child tight in his arms. Tiny fingers twisted into the waterlogged fabric of his shirt. The drag of wet cloth was uncomfortable, but Whitebeard couldn't help the teasing look he shot his son. 

“Thought you said you’d never fly in a storm again?”

“...I’m bigger now,” Marco said, as if that really argued anything. Grinning despite the storm, Whitebeard shook his head as he stumbled inside, dropping off his soggy and protesting cargo before dealing with the storm.

* * *

Whitebeard stared, unable to help the amusement pulling at his lips. 

Flushed red, Marco hunkered down defensively, wings vanishing in a flicker of phoenix fire. It did nothing to hide how his talons still bit delicately into the railing, edged into the many little grooves and gouges he had steadily carved out of nearly every part of the ship. _“What?”_ He snapped, “you _said_ I should try to get a feel for it.”

Whitebeard didn’t even bother to hold back the delighted chortling that exploded out of him, delighted when Marco made a now familiarly embarrassed chirp of surprise at being scooped off his perch into a hug. _“My cute son,”_ he cooed teasingly, cackling when Marco half-heartedly slugged him in the chest. “Did you have _fun_ flapping into the wind?” He closed his eyes to a flash of blue and just continued to snicker as a wing smacked him over the head. Cool feathers tickled against his skin. 

“It was  _ your idea!” _ Marco protested. He hissed loudly when Whitebeard swung him in a circle, flapping uselessly to slow down the spinning. 

“And you're doing so well,” Whitebeard said. His eyes sparkled genuinely, pinning Marco in place with a look overwhelmingly fond. “I’m so proud of my strong, diligent son!” He continued to spin Marco around, warm with the recognition that Marco gripped back just as tightly. For once, he didn’t feel sick to see tears in his child’s eyes. 

* * *

“Marco,” Whitebeard began hesitantly only to be cut off as a wing lightly slapped the side of his head. “Marco, is this _really_ the place to be doing that?”

Marco paused in his flapping, readjusting his claws carefully in order to lean over Whitebeard’s face with a look so smugly _innocent_ that Whitebeard had half a mind to fling him into the sky again. _“What?”_ He asked. “You _said_ I needed to practice.” 

“I _did,_ but–”

“I can't keep breaking railings, can i?”

Whitebeard began to sweat, glancing aside to catch sight of one of the aforementioned ‘breaks’. In just a few days since Marco had started "perching practice" he had managed to singlehandedly _obliterate_ much of the railing bordering the deck. A large portion had been lost due to a strong wind forcing Marco to tighten his grip alone, and the slightest misjudgment of strength or grip led to inevitable destruction. So far, Nothing less than solid steel had survived Marco's talons. 

Sighing, Whitebeard surrendered to what seemed to be his new fate as a myth perch. 

“...Carry on.” 

* * *

Marco froze, eyes huge and wings still spread half mast. Dazed, he glanced down at his feet as if confused that they were there before looking up at Whitebeard in shock. 

Whitebeard in return grinned so widely his face burned, laughing breathlessly in exhilaration. Marco was too shocked to even react as the captain excitedly picked him up and tossed him into the air. 

“I… I did it?” Marco said quietly, as if the words didn’t make sense. Whitebeard was too excited to reply, wordlessly holding Marco tighter and smiling with all his teeth, unable to stop the giddy race of his heart. Some of the joy in his face seemed to finally kickstart Marco's and the boy immediately started squirming, feathers everywhere and tail tangled in Whitebeard’s fingers. “_I did it!”_ He screamed. “Did you see that?!? _I did it!”_ Whitebeard whooped with him, spinning in place just to hear Marco trill happily. _“I did it Pops!”_

Even already so high on adrenaline and victory Whitebeard felt like his heart _burst_.

_ Pops.  _

_ He called me Pops.  _

Before Marco could even get embarrassed he hugged him close, laughing as the boy squirmed in his arms like an overexcited puppy to breathlessly say _“you did it, son!_ I _knew_ you could.” Marco cheered in happiness, so loud and long it sounded like _singing_ to whitebeard— a note that climbed higher and higher in victory like a soaring bird. Whitebeard sputtered on his laughter, already stumbling towards their rooms with Marco high in his arms. 

“Celebrate!  _ We have to celebrate, _ Marco— your  _ first perfect flight!”  _ He kicked the door open without even caring for how it splintered against the wall, only caring for how Marco continued to sing in his arms. “We need meat! And sake!” 

Cool feathers swept across his cheek and Whitebeard only had eyes for his child, his first, precious child, his hurt and hunted  _ family _ , who smiled up at him as if spilling sunlight from every orifice. His flames flickered off him uncontrollably, sporadic as sun spots and tiny sparkling blue fireworks. He was positively _glowing_ with happiness– a blue bundle of joy and hope and success all _right there in his arms. _

Whitebeard couldn't think of anything more brilliant than the child nestled in his arms right then and there. 

_ I’m your Pops. Your family. I’ll be here forever for you.  _

_ Fly and be free. You’ll always have me to come home to now.  _

* * *

_ _

Whitebeard’s children looked with just as much awe and exasperated fondness as Whitebeard felt. Marco, still asleep in his lap, didn't even stir once under the stares. 

“Who knew our bird could be so _clumsy,_ once,” Thatch said softly, but the joke was too genuine, too heartfelt to be teasing. Multiple agreeing mumbles echoed out of the crowd. Ace looked particularly unsure what to do with all the new information and just gazed at Marco with new understanding dawning in his eyes– the kind Whitebeard only caught on his youngest member’s face when new rookie bounties came in the News Coo. 

For a moment, they all were silent. Marco snored quietly. 

“...I’m _never_ going to let this go,” Haruta abruptly blurted out. Whitebeard looked questionably at his son only to raise his brows high at the amount of papers and ink surrounding him. He wasnt sure when so many of his children had hoarded around him; much less when and where Haruta had amassed as many notes as he did. Haruta grinned like a shark. “I’m  _ never going to let this go.”  _

Whitebeard burst out laughing. 

The entire crowd quickly followed, filling the Moby with the sounds of giggling and slapping as as many siblings as possible fought to high five Haruta first. His son in question sat with his spine straight, smirking in satisfaction through the praise. His division set to making copies without even being asked and watching his children dive on them like starving men on a meal made Whitebeard _lose_ it. At least four people were screaming bloody murder and he _swore_ he just saw Blamenco stuff a whole handful of papers into his cheeks. Vista's sword was drawn. Thatch bumped into Ace and then the entire crowd was shrieking in alarm and bustling the papers out of the way as his youngest immediately burst into flames. 

Marco startled awake, eyes snapping open. 

The entire crowd froze. 

For a moment, there was total silence. Marco blinked up from where he was still stumped in Whitebeard’s lap, dazedly staring at all his siblings surrounding them on the deck. He stiffened when his sight landed on Haruta. 

Specifically, the papers he was cheerfully showing off. 

"...Haruta." 

Blue eyes narrowed and Haruta screamed in terrified glee, darting off into the crowd like a shot from a cannon.  Marco leapt to his feet instants after Haruta moved and everyone _immediately_ scattered in every direction.

_“HARUTA!”_ Marco shrieked, exploding into blue flames. People were yelling all over the deck, scrambling frantically out of the way as their first mate and oldest brother _launched_ himself after his brother with _murder_ in his eyes. 

Haruta screeched from somewhere unidentifiable to Whitebeard, and the captain laughed so loud the oceans trembled with it. He swore he heard Marco hiss  _ “Pops” _ and looked up in time to catch sight of his son flushed just as red as he used to when he was little, talons bared threateningly and wings glowing arched high above him. He looked like a star ready to turn to a supernova, brilliant and devastating. He looked like his son. 

Cackling with unsuppressed delight, Whitebeard followed his children off the deck. Marco trilled behind him, the song echoing into the night, and as his family shrieked and shouted in alarm Whitebeard couldn't help but smile widely. 

_ I wouldn't trade this family for the world. _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its done lmao welcome back to my 11k of just found family and terrible methods of flight training and attempts at safety!
> 
> this was never intended to be more than one chapter Im not entirely sure where i went wrong but writing this was honestly so much fun it didnt matter lol
> 
> As always, you can find me over at my tumblr, [Leviathiane](https://leviathiane.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this right goddamn now in like 15 minutes its short and its bad and i Could Not Care Less bc ive been thinking about it for like 2 weeks now and never delivered. In my prompts doc it literally just says "yes whitebeard CAN instinctually snatch marco straight out of the air bc flight training and safety precautions" 
> 
> this is a 2-parter, but can technically just be read as a stand alone till/unless i actually... write the next part?


End file.
